Never Ending Perfection
by Starlightmonkey
Summary: “The thing that is really hard, and really amazing, is giving up on being perfect and beginning the work of becoming yourself.” What happens when being perfect is no longer enough?
1. Prologue

**Summary:** "The thing that is really hard, and really amazing, is giving up on being perfect and beginning the work of becoming yourself." What happens when being perfect is no longer enough?

**Author's Note: **Hey everyone! This is an idea that has been bouncing around my head for awhile and I decided to post to see if anyone was interested and wanted me to continue with it! I'm trying my hand at writing in first person perspective which I don't generally do so I'm not positive how well this is going to go but I felt that it was a better way to convey the premise of the story. So with that said, please don't hesitate to tell me what you think!

A huge thanks goes out to **En-En-chan** who has so graciously agreed to beta for me and who was kind enough to provide the title! Major thanks!

**Disclaimer:** I do not, nor will I ever, have the pleasure of being able to say with confidence that I created and own Beyblades and all things subsequently associated with it.

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**Prologue**

Perfection.

Definition: A state of completeness and flawlessness; being free from fault or defect; an exemplification of supreme excellence.

A simple and innocent enough word for most people.

A title they use to describe only the best, the crème de la crème, the unsurpassed. An expression that conveys an ideal of society that takes its form in the recesses of humanity, in those who dedicate their lives to attaining such a heading and the subsequent recognition of this by others for their amazing achievements.

To the majority, those living outside the realms of the world of perfection, they see it as an honour to be given such a mantle to wear. They can only look on and see the admiration and envy, the greatness and the importance, the respect and the wonder, which is bestowed upon those branded as perfect. They believe that it is effortless for these few elite people that can procure such a sentient and they cannot see past their own desires to really look at those they hold in such high esteem. They cannot understand the potency and effect that being seen as perfect has on those delegated to it, only the extraordinary personas that they themselves have built up and enforced upon these people.

What most do not realize is the dark and unyielding clutch that perfection has on those who attain it.

They cannot even begin to understand and sympathize with the pressure and constraints that such an 'honour' places upon a person. They don't realize that it's all consuming and destroying. It's like a drug and you can never escape it. You can never break free from it because if you do, you're all alone. The harsh reality is that no one likes a failure. And so, you continue to feed the cycle, abiding by the strict set of rules that govern the game of perfection. And the absolute saddest thing about it is that it _never ends_. Once you reach one level of 'perfect' you soon realize that it's not enough and so you have to strive to reach a point further than it in order to feel the praise and admiration of those you seek such approval from. You have to continue to surpass yourself and push yourself further than what is realistically possible. It's a never ending circle that you can't pull yourself out of once you get into the rhythm of it without obliterating all you've worked so hard to craft.

It's an addiction and an impossibility.

And it's the acknowledgment, appreciation, and approval garnered from those not in the same situation that unknowingly keeps the chain unbroken and nourishes it, ensuring along the way that it can't be escaped from.

It's a vicious cycle.

To others, perfection is a word that they more often than not throw around with carelessness and flippancy, applying it wherever they wish without regard to the power that such a statement can convey to others who accept it as more than an expression of the English language.

To those few others it is just that.

A word.

But to those who believe in it unwaveringly and enforce this conviction that perfection is achievable and should be strived for at all costs onto others, generally people too weak to resist, it is the ultimate goal in life. To them, the recognition of such a triumph from surrounding others is vital, a pivotal element, something which substantiates and justifies all the hard work and sacrifice that is required in order to reach the status of perfect.

It is an all-encompassing commitment that is not undertaken lightly. To embark upon such a quest is not the result of a simple want, but a powerful and unrelenting need, driving and pushing you to, and usually beyond, your limitations.

It's a lifestyle.

One that devours you completely on the inside, ensnaring your whole being within its shadowy depths, but which leaves a lasting impression to those on the outside. A fantastically brilliant image to be precise.

And it's obsessive in its entirety.

And how do I know this?

I am perfection.

I am the singular, most perfect person you will ever meet in your entire lifetime.

I have spent the last thirteen years of my life shaping and fashioning myself into the person I am today and I am proud to announce that all my devotion and dedication has paid off.

I am the best at everything I do, at everything I set out to do.

I've made sure of it.

I've invested everything I have into securing the attention and positive appraisal of everyone I've ever encountered and I will continue to do so as long as I can to make sure I'm loved for eternity by all. For me that's the most important thing. I can't function without the love and admiration of those around me. I crave it. I need to be reveled and worshipped by all in order to assure myself that I have worth and that I have meaning as an individual. That the impenetrable mask I have so diligently woven and worn all these years isn't in vain. That I will be adored and venerated for all of my accolades and the time I've spent acquiring them.

Yes, I am perfection personified.

I have to be.

Because, for me, perfection wasn't ever really a choice. It was a defense mechanism.

Perfection is my means of survival.

I learnt this at the tender age of three, that being defect less and flawless would solidify my position in my austere and always watched corner of the world. I began to comprehend that if I wanted attention and affection then I had to have a legitimate reason for receiving it. Thus began my mission and pursuit of the elusive label of perfection.

The high society circles of New York are where I play my dangerous and deadly game of pretenses and unrealistic farces. Ultimately, it's the reason why I am the way I am.

After my initial discoveries, it moulded me and guided me, showed me the path to which I could accomplish greatness and in turn gain acceptance from those I so desperately need it from.

High society New York… only the most glamorous, famous, richest and exceptional are allowed the privilege of being a part of such a scene. It's the most demanding and seductive of all cultures. It's only too easy to be a 'somebody' one day and then a 'nobody' the next if you can't establish yourself above the rest of those trying to steal your spotlight. And there is an unbelievable amount who would love to see you fail so they can take your place. That's why I had to cement myself so firmly in the fabric of society and become a necessity, the most perfect person. I had to prove myself and show them that no matter what, my light would always burn just that little bit brighter than the rest of theirs. To demonstrate that I am the best and that they needed me more than I needed them.

A lie…but they needn't know that.

Actually, if truth be told, it was never my original intention when I made the decision to embark upon the journey of excellence for it to affect my standing within society.

It was merely a reaction to my immediate surroundings at home.

But as I grew older I began to be aware of the fact that I could gain interest and appreciation for my feats and accomplishments from those outside my family circle. And as that increased exponentially, the affirmative reactions of my relatives increased too.

After all, I was an ambassador for my family.

Everything I did well reflected on them and helped to strengthen our position as a collective in the often harsh social circles in which we live.

It's a win-win situation if you consider it.

Not only do I gain approval from my family but I also receive the adulation and praise from everyone else, thereby enforcing my merit and reputation in my community. And of course, by association, that of my family.

I'm the girl who is perfect in every way, shape and form.

Yeah, that's me to a tee.

I am the golden girl of New York society. No one can match up to me. I am what all other parents wish their child could be like.

I'm perfect.

And as such, I can never let my guard down. I can never show others how broken I am on the inside if I want to continue my charade of happiness in the sheltered world in which I live my life. I can never show the cracks and insecurities that lie within, so firmly entrenched that some day's it's all I can do to not scream at the top of my lungs that I'm not okay and never have been. I can never let my faultless mask fall even for the smallest instance if I wish to remain in the secure bubble I've created. I need the smile to remain permanently fixed on my face so they can't see what I'm really feeling on the inside if I want to continue to live in the fast lane with all those adoring eyes staring up at me on my pedestal so high above them all. I _have_ to keep the walls up otherwise I'll fall and all that I've produced will crumble into nothingness and the perfectness will be ruined.

I _can't_ let that happen under _any_ circumstance.

After all, perfection is the only thing I've ever known. Without it, I don't know what would become of me. I'd be stripped down bare to my core, the layers of illusion I'd manufactured over the years would quickly unravel to leave a fractured little girl yearning for the adoration she so depended on to stay afloat in the shark infested waters of her exclusive community.

I'd be nothing…nothing at all.

I didn't like that thought.

Not one little bit.

Not _at all_.

I guess it's too bad that nobody ever bothered to tell me that perfection cannot last then isn't it?

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So, should I continue or not? Reviews would be unbelievably appreciated!


	2. Chapter 1

**Summary:** "The thing that is really hard, and really amazing, is giving up on being perfect and beginning the work of becoming yourself." What happens when being perfect is no longer enough?

**Author's Note:** A massive thank-you goes out to my beta **En-En-chan** for going over this chapter for me and also to those who were gracious enough to review the prologue (**Petalwhisker**, **FlamingIce94**, **En-En-chan**, and **KuramaKitty**) and who added this story to their alerts/ favourites lists!

**Disclaimer:** I do not, nor will I ever, have the pleasure of being able to say with confidence that I created and own Beyblade and all things subsequently associated with it.

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**Chapter 1 **

Looking out the dark tinted windows of the stretch limousine I was currently sitting in, I observed as we slowly drove past a tall and imperial appearing wall constructed out of lavish yellow sandstone. Gently rolling forward, the car stopped only when we were directly in front of a pair of black cast iron gates, regally inscribed with the initials of the private high school that they guarded and provided entrance into.

_WPA_.

Whittleford Preparatory Academy, simply abbreviated, Whit Prep.

Only the most expensive and exclusive secondary school that New York has to offer.

So naturally, it's the school of choice for the offspring of many of New York's most wealthy, prominent and important figures of society.

Sprawling green lawns filled with lush landscapes, state of the art facilities housed in only the most immaculate and luxurious of buildings, a rigorous and intense academic program coupled with the most extensive list of extra-curricular activities available in one institution, a teaching staff carefully hand-picked so as to ensure only the best education for its students, all conveniently located on the Upper East Side, are what Whit Prep boasts.

Oh, and the highest percentage of graduates in America that are accepted into Ivy League schools of course.

With the price that they charge for admission, it would want to be fantastic. $35,000 a year simply to attend and an insurmountable amount more if you happen to lack in the intelligence department. A new science or arts centre, performance theatre, or ice hockey rink and you're guaranteed to pass with flying colours and to gain entrance into the college of your choice. Subsequently, a very comfortable life is assured.

But if you had the smarts legitimately, well, the opportunities were endless with a school like Whit Prep. After all, it was a traditional bastion of learning and networking that was virtually impossible to find anywhere else. A stronghold of possibilities that could assure parents that they had successfully prepared their children for the rest of what was certain to be a very glorious life.

Simply put, Whittleford Preparatory Academy was _the_ best.

Unbeatable.

Unparalleled.

Perfect.

And I attended such a magnificent place.

It is my Kingdom and I its Queen.

But I guess that's a piece of irrelevant and invalid information without knowing exactly who I am.

How rude of me.

Please allow me to introduce myself.

My name is Harlow Fawkes and I am the absolute pinnacle of perfection.

To everyone that isn't me, that is.

I am a privileged, pampered, Park-Avenue Princess; daughter of an investment and banking tycoon and his stunning socialite wife; sister of an heir dutifully fulfilling his obligation to his legacy with a business degree at Cambridge University; in short, the toast of a loving nuclear family.

At least that's the image we like to present to the outside world.

The version that only a very _select_ few are privy to, however, is slightly more skewed than that.

To them, my own family included, I am still the ideal child but they know the excruciatingly hidden truth that my pedigree isn't as clean as we like to claim.

In fact, it's only half of what it should be.

Although my older brother Hayden, a good six years my senior, can rightfully declare that he is the agreed product of our parents arranged marriage, icy at best, I regrettably cannot.

My heritage is of a far more scandalous nature than that I'm afraid.

I am the result of a deliciously forbidden liaison between my father and one of the maids, cliché as it sounds. A relationship based on mutual affections or one of predator and prey I don't know, but knowing my father, the cold and callous man the rest of the world hasn't ever seen, I'm more inclined to believe the latter. A terrible thing to be sure, but one that is probably true.

And so, after seven years of a marriage that neither of my parents, or should I say my father and _step_-mother, entered into of their own accord, merely a relationship manufactured by their parents in order to forge advantageous allegiances and business ventures between two powerful houses, and I was born.

The daughter my mother had always dreamed of but had resigned herself to a fate without. After all, she was married to a man who thought more of the dirt on his shoes than he did of her, only remembering her name because she had been forced to take his surname when they wed. And as far as he was concerned he had done his duty to the familial contract, he had created an heir to carry on the Fawkes line, and as such there was no need for him to produce anymore children.

With her, at least.

And by all means my birth should have been a momentous occasion. I was the little girl with the cherub face that my mother had always wanted.

There was just one problem.

I wasn't hers.

No, I was to be the constant reminder of her husband's infidelity and her inability to successfully fulfill her role as a wife. The painful reinforcement that her husband found the help more appealing than the woman renowned for her beauty throughout the spheres of the society they lived in. A cause for untold jealousy, anger and resentment.

A grounds for revenge.

Of which I'm sure she began to enact the day I came into this world. I have always doubted that my biological mother died of completely natural complications resultant from a strenuous birth when she had the best doctors that money could buy attending to her. I have always believed that something far more sinister was afoot that day, an opinion I have never voiced, though reinforced especially at the sadistically satisfied look that's present on my mother's face at the mention of the demise of my birth mother.

Nevertheless, she valiantly took up the responsibility of my upbringing under the guise that I was indeed her daughter. A story supported by the fabrication of her pregnancy several months prior to my arrival, a plan formed the day after she had discovered her husband's betrayal and the undesirable consequences it had created.

A lesser woman would have left her unfaithful husband and demanded a divorce in a heartbeat, but not my mother.

No, she was far too determined for that.

Far too determined to protect her dignity and integrity, the very essence of which would have been shredded and destroyed beyond all recognition by the gossip mongrels of high society New York. I may have been her husband's indiscretion, but she would be the one to suffer for it.

She therefore took action, lest she forgo the life she had become quite accustomed to over the years, a move that was wholly approved of by my father and the other limited players involved in the conspiracy. The Fawkes family would remain untainted by the steel-tipped claws of scandal and my mother would be able to continue to face society with the added bonus of a gorgeous baby girl.

And so the façade was built, maintained, and the origins of my birth remain a secret that will be taken to the grave, undisclosed to anyone.

The veneer of the wonderful, devoted and caring family is preserved and the general public remains under the impression that my father and mother love each beyond all others, save their two children, whom, despite their age gap, are the closest of siblings.

The perfect family.

And in reality, when the doors are closed and no one's watching, we are simply four individuals living separate lives and unifying only when necessary, when subjected to the scrutiny of others.

In all, a hollow and unaffectionate existence.

That is, until I made the discovery that would set me on a course that would affect my life up until this very instance. That set me on the path towards my salvation, towards perfection.

In one second, with just the barest glimpse of the upturned corner of my father's mouth that denoted his pleasure with me, I learnt.

Three years old, one talent show and first place later, and I learned the most life-altering of lessons.

I learnt that I could earn my family's, and by extension that of my society's, attention and recognition by winning.

By being _the_ best.

By being _perfect_.

I was hooked.

And the greatest thing about it was that my lineage became secondary, the repercussions and constraints of it melting away because of what I brought to the family.

Glory, brilliance, praise, prestige, distinction, the list was endless.

And above all else, envy.

Envy for such a faultless child and the skill needed to raise such a person.

Even my mother, who could so easily hate me for what I am, for what I represent, tolerates, and, dare I say, _loves_ me in her own way. Not the same kind of love she has for Hayden, but love nonetheless.

We even exchange polite and pleasant conversation over breakfast on the rare occasions we eat such a meal together. A usually unheard of occurrence with others in a situation similar to ours.

But then again, it isn't altogether surprising.

After all, I've never given her a reason to hate me. I've made certain of it.

I've even provided her with all the tools necessary to provide me with the adulation I so desperately need from her. I've made it easy for her to give without concerning her conscious and overwhelming desires that instruct her to despise me.

I've given her the appearance of the epitome mother, a role she takes very seriously, and one that is an increasing rarity in our community. For all I do so flawlessly, I attribute to her guidance and instruction, which in turn reflects positively and presents her to her friends, peers, and social neighbours as a wonderful woman.

An ingenious cycle, no?

She gets to subtly laud herself in front of her jealous comrades over her parenting skills while I receive the acceptance and adoration I require to reassure myself that I belong, that I have worth, that I was meant to be here.

Add to that the fact that I make perfection look effortless, even though it is far from it, and you begin to understand why she can delight in me so.

Why everyone can.

In their eyes, I am naturally perfect.

But they only see what I let them see.

They don't really know anything.

They don't see the sheer enormity of it all. The effort, work and perseverance needed to achieve my aim. They only see the end result.

To them, I am the girl more beautiful than any individual has a right to be. One of those awe inspiring beauties, the kind that with just a brief glance is burned into your mind's eye forevermore, and will always remain one of the most beautiful people you will ever have the pleasure of seeing. With my long auburn hair, so luscious and silky, and my bright green eyes, like two sparkling emeralds trapped within the contours of a face benefit from a bone structure that would put the world's top models to shame, I'm gorgeous. But combine that with my body, so svelte and feminine, curvaceous yet thin, and they see perfection.

What they don't perceive is the hours spent in the gym polishing and toning my body to the point of exhaustion, the meals skipped if the needle on the scales so much as quivers over my approved weight, the amount of pain I have to go through to maintain such a faultless visage.

They don't know that I literally can't leave the house unless my hair is immaculate, my make-up flawless, and my appearance absolutely perfect.

No, they think that such an exterior is just the consequence of fantastic genes, not the product of my manufacture.

But it's alright because they don't need to know.

To them, I am the girl with the grades that made even Harvard bow down begging, and I had only just entered high school. The girl with the 4.0 GPA, the average of 100 per cent and straight A's in all of her classes, with the number one position on the honors list. The girl with the mile-long catalog of extra-curricular activities; a room full of trophies, crowns, medals and such acknowledgments a testament to this fact. The captain of the cheerleading squad and debating team, the lead in school productions, the president of the student representative council and the editor of the school newspaper, head debutante and head social chair, these just a select few of the contributions I make to Whit Prep.

To them, I am the perfect student.

However, what they don't see is the sleepless evenings spent hunched over textbooks far too complicated for any 16 year old to understand, back burning and tired eyes squinting with the effort of keeping them open and focused. The amount of time, sweat and blood needed to fulfill my responsibilities to my various positions within the school perfectly. The dedication required to refrain from crumbling from such pressure and stress. The diet of coffee, energy drinks and sleeping pills needed to sustain such an existence.

But they don't need to see any of that.

To them, I am the girl with the amazing personality and the most popular girl in school, a fact supported by the amount of crowns I've been nominated for and won. The girl who is kind and trustworthy, friends with everyone, and who candy stripes at the local hospital after school. A perfect role model with too much modesty. Someone to aspire to be like.

What they don't know is the control and concentration every one of my movements is carried out with. The way I am compelled to analyze everything to ensure it will not reflect negatively upon me. The thought and intention behind each simple step I take. The pure willpower and resolve necessary to life such a restrictive life. The utter lack of freedom.

To them, I am the girl without any problems and the living personification of the word 'perfect'.

But to me? Not so much.

Perfection is my prison. But I had no right to complain. I was the one who created it.

Suddenly, the door of the limousine was pulled open with the skill and expertise of someone well-versed in his duties as chauffeur, successfully breaking me out of my introspective and calling my attention back to the world of the real.

"Whittleford Preparatory Academy, Miss. Harlow," the graying gentleman announced to me as I looked up and smiled gratefully at him. With the poise and elegance developed with years of experience, I proceeded to exit the expensive automobile and express my apology for monopolizing the driver, Cadbury's, time.

A standard practice between the two of us.

"Not at all Miss. Harlow, it is what I am employed for," Cadbury responded in his usual dry tone, a hint of a smile threatening to overcome his professional manner, "Have a good day at school."

With a final smile, I gracefully walked away from him and made my way through the richly designed gates and along the paved walkway bordered with pristine and fragrant rose bushes that marked the entrance into Whit Prep. Students all around me, each of varying calibers, were repeating the action as we individually made our way into the prestigious high school and to our respective first days of the new educational year.

Passing past many of them, each greeting me and inquiring after my summer to which I happily replied and replicated the gesture, I eventually came to a momentary standstill in front of the double doors that led into the entrance hall and the inside of the main building. Taking a deep breath and smoothing down the nonexistent creases on my dark blue tartan tunic, the skirt of which was a precise two and half inches above my knee, not a millimeter more nor a millimeter less, and checking that my features were still rearranged into the warm and welcoming expression that I did so well, I advanced into the inner realms of the school with a specific goal in mind: locate my friends.

A few minutes of navigating through hallways and idle chatter with the people I came into contact with later, found me on my way to the inner South quad where I was confident I would find at least a few of the teens who made up my clique.

Before I could reach my destination however, a young girl who was quite clearly a freshman, managed to have her books knocked out of her hands in front of me by one of the passing seniors. Without stopping, the older male simply tossed a "Watch where you're going!" at the poor girl, who looked on the verge of tears, and left her to reclaim all of her fallen possessions amid the snickers of surrounding students.

Changing my course of direction slightly, I bent down in front of the clearly embarrassed adolescent and began assisting her to collect her strewn belongings. Looking up bewildered to see who was helping her, the girl's royal blue eyes widened and a light blush graced her cheeks when her gaze fell upon me.

A common reaction.

"Here," I said with a charming smile as I passed the stunned freshman her Physics book, glancing down at it for a split second and subsequently comprehending an important factor about the teen.

She was a scholarship student.

To the untrained eye she appeared to be nothing more than a new student to the wealthiest high school on the East Coast, an opportunity generally extended only to those who could afford such opulence, but to an eye that was skilled in identifying even the minutest of details in all circumstances, it was evident to detect.

The small crease on the cover of the textbook gave it away. It indicated that it had been opened and used before, albeit only once or twice, and was therefore second hand. If she was a typical rich kid, her schoolbooks would be brand new and in crisp condition, never having been read before.

But they weren't which therefore led to the supposition that she was only attending this school as a result of the government's insistence about equal opportunities for _all_ individuals, hence the scholarships available at this institution.

Knowing this made me look at the rather timid girl in a different light.

Contrary to the popular belief that all affluent teens detested those of lower social classes who attended their school by means of monetary help, I actually appreciated them. The determination and dedication they needed to gain entrance and secure a scholarship to a private school like Whip Prep was outstanding. Such a feat was hardly a walk in Central Park. Actually, it was more along the lines of a casual walk on the moon.

You could even say that I admired them.

After all, I could fully understand the drive and commitment they displayed. We were similar in that way.

"Um, thanks," the teen mumbled shyly as she clumsily accepted the proffered book and added it to the stack in her arms as she got up from her crouched position on the floor.

Emulating her, I also stood up, surveying her discreetly in the process.

She had hair that was the same colour as her eyes, a bright shade of royal blue, styled in a messy pixie cut that worked well with her rather elfin features and pale skin. She was petite and had the awkward air that denoted puberty about her. In all, she seemed like a cute girl who was way out of her depth in the high flying world that was Whittleford Preparatory Academy.

Noticing that the young teen was staring at me, awe and amazement clear in her eyes, I inwardly grinned as I recognized the preludes to veneration that she was displaying.

Another adoring fan just waiting to show me worship and adoration. A few more words and she'd be under my spell.

I reveled in it momentarily before speaking once again.

"You're more than welcome. So I'm guessing you're a freshman then?" I asked with a knowing lilt to my voice. At her nod I continued, "Well, let me officially welcome you to Whittleford Preparatory Academy then."

I held out my hand for her to shake and she stared down at it in astonishment for a few seconds before gingerly grasping it. When she glanced back up at me, I could tell that she was absolutely enthralled and captivated by my kindness, an element which was integral to the continuity of my perfection.

By displaying such niceness people were less inclined to hate me.

It didn't give them that option.

"Thanks," the nameless girl answered with a tentative smile, a reaction to the megawatt smile I was giving her. It never failed.

"No problem. My name's Harlow Fawkes by the way."

"Rogue Hiwatari," the now known girl replied with a little more confidence colouring her tone.

Definitely a scholarship student. The name Hiwatari didn't ring any bells and I knew everyone that played a part in high society New York. And by everyone, I seriously meant _everyone_.

"I know that this school can be kind of…" I hesitated trying to find the right word to convey the feeling, "okay let's face it _seriously_ scary," I said jokingly earning a look of agreement from the younger teen, "But don't worry I swear it's not as bad as it seems. And if you ever need any help, don't be afraid to come and ask me."

"Really?" Rogue asked with wide eyes, obviously astonished at the direct and friendly invitation. Apparently I was the only person who had ventured anywhere near the arena of nice when speaking with the poor girl at Whit Prep. And she was overly grateful for this expression of kindness if the look on her face was anything to go by at my nod to her inquisition.

"Wow, thank-you so much!" she exclaimed ecstatically while grinning stupidly in her excitement at making a friend.

Freshmen were so easy to convert.

Although I must admit that the smile that crept onto my lips wasn't entirely the product of my plan to capture the young teen's respect and high esteem. In fact, it was much more genuine than that. Her happiness and enthusiasm was just so infectious that I couldn't help but laugh at her. She was definitely a breath of fresh air when contrasted with her counterparts here at Whittleford Preparatory Academy and if I had any doubts whatsoever before I could unquestionably quell them now.

She was most absolutely a scholarship student.

She was far too lively, bubbly and unrestrained to belong to the upper echelons of society and her rather unrefined mannerisms didn't aid the image. Though, there was certainly nothing wrong with that.

"You're welcome," I answered as my laughter subsided at her overzealous reactions, "Now, do you need any help getting to homeroom?"

"Oh," Rogue suddenly said as realization hit her, "Um, you wouldn't know how to get to room S349 would you?" she added sheepishly as she consulted her timetable and became aware of the reality that she had no idea where she was headed.

A frequent occurrence in a school of this size and magnitude.

"Sure, follow me," I responded benevolently as I began to continue down the ornately decorated corridor that I had been previously following before stopping to help the freshman girl as my wealthy peers simply ignored her. Rogue, who looked quite diminutive and gauche next to my statuesque and poised form, quickly followed my lead too.

Ten minutes later, after having deposited the blue haired teen to her respective classroom, and I think that I knew absolutely everything there was to know about Rogue Hiwatari. The girl was quite the chatterbox once she got over her initial hesitations and wasn't exactly shy about disclosing information about herself.

In the few short minutes that we'd been walking, I had learnt that she had a twin sister named Skye, that she wanted to be a journalist for The New York Post while her slightly younger sibling wanted to be a photographer, that she was obsessed with Nickelback, and that she was in no uncertain terms ashamed of being a scholarship student. In fact, she was rather proud of such an achievement and had no fear voicing it.

It was this last proclamation that made me, in all honesty, truly like the younger girl. She was so free and unrestricted that it was impossible for me not to. She was so different and foreign to what I was use to.

It was refreshing to see such autonomy and maybe even a little envy inducing.

As I contemplated this notion in my mind, the only place where such a thought could ever be permitted to surface, I continued down my original path in order to secure the company of my friends.

Stopping just short of my destination, I peered around one of the stone arches that supported the gothic inspired outside corridor I was in and looked upon the group of students lounging around the tables, benches and fountain in the very centre of the small paved courtyard.

My friends.

Smiling slightly at the apparently blithe scene, I let my green eyes roam over each of them as they chattered away completely unaware of their audience.

The tall and large figure of Bryan Kyznetsov was the first to draw my gaze as he sat on one of the benches and leaned against one of the tables, head tilted towards the sky, giving the appearance that he was faraway with his own thoughts and oblivious to the world around him.

The pose was so typically Bryan that I almost snorted. Almost.

Bryan Kyznetsov.

He was big, broad and burly.

Light lavender hair and matching eyes would appear on most as an innocent enough combination, but on Bryan were a frightfully deadly mix. It accentuated the harsh planes of his face and enforced his dark handsomeness, a feature often only admired from afar. This standoffish reception to the teen was generally a result of his infamously cold personality and questionable reputation.

It was often whispered among those outside of our little group that he was a drugged up delinquent, impartial and rude, and an altogether unsavory character. A view only perpetuated and strengthened by his lineage.

In the respectable world that the people in our society liked to pretend they lived in, he was the son of a powerful Russian business man who had moved to the US when he was much younger and had subsequently, in the years since then, amassed a gargantuan amount of wealth. In reality, with one look around at the ridiculous number of highly armed 'bodyguards' that surrounded the Kyznetsov mansion and this notion became completely void. Bryan was actually the offspring of one of the most feared and wanted crime bosses in Russia who had established himself as the head of the American division of the Russian mafia when he escaped from the authorities in his homeland, although this wasn't exactly a well-known fact among our pretentious peers.

Hence his upbringing had been a rather…interesting affair. He had consequently developed a potentially lethal personality that didn't bode well for those he deemed as enemies. After all, he was just like his father in that respect. Cross them once and you'd live to regret it for the rest of your life…if you didn't mysteriously 'disappear' first that is.

Luckily for the people currently occupying positions around the boy and of course myself, the lavender haired teen had decided that we were friend not foe and had extended the hand of friendship to each of us, albeit taking a rather possessive and protective stance when it came to the females in our circle.

Next to the brawny adolescent, and sitting in his usual reserved and composed manner, was Bryan's best friend and fellow Russian, Spencer Novikov.

Spence was much akin to Bryan in stature and build except for the fact that he was even taller, no mean feat in itself, and he possessed features that were sharp but still attractive in their own way. Dusky blond hair adorned his head and calm grey eyes his face, eyes that were always alight with a knowing and perceptive glint.

That was the thing about Spencer; he always knew. Always. It made it impossible to lie to him convincingly once he began to question and grow suspicious of the answers he was receiving because he could so easily cut through the webs of lies with a simple glance of his probing gaze.

Spencer was an observer.

A potentially dangerous observer for those of us who had things to hide. Thankfully, my flawless visage had yet to attract his piercing and inquisitive stare as I had never given him any reason to query my motives and pretences in the first place.

He was also something of an enigma when all things were considered. Although a sense of perpetual serenity surrounded him and he made the perfect keeper of the peace when he wasn't personally embroiled in the fight, he could turn just as dangerous and violent as Bryan at his worst in a matter of seconds when directly or indirectly threatened.

It was this which probably helped to explain why the two were such good friends. They were very alike in regards to certain specific aspects of their personalities. Well, that and the fact that they had been raised together because their father's were close 'business' associates. A visit to the Novikov residence and it was evident to see that said 'business' wasn't entirely related to Mr. Novikov's day job of running his shipping empire…actually, on review, it may have been. It was just the 'what' he was shipping which was the cause for concern and most likely the reason why the families were so close.

Enough said on that topic then.

Across from the not so gentle on occasion giant known as Spencer, standing with her hip leant against one of the tables and a pose full of attitude, was the drama queen of Whit Prep more commonly referred to as Cabaret Madonna Montoya.

Seriously, her parent's really were that cruel.

Despite her tiny 5'2 frame, Cabaret was the loudest and most boisterous person I had ever met, who absolutely thrived on being in the spotlight and would suffer from heart failure if she wasn't the centre of attention. With her bright scarlet red hair and vibrant violet eyes she was definitely striking, but combined with her extroverted and often neurotic personality, she was the very definition of a prima donna.

The words flamboyant, extravagant and theatrical were only superficially applicable to the redhead as they really did no justice in describing the girl and her uninhibited character.

Everything was a drama with her. Absolutely everything.

With only two settings on her emotional control button: extreme and apocalyptic, and only viewing the world in absolutes, she was guaranteed to overreact in any and every situation. She was most definitely a drama queen with an irrational personality and the most excessive of histrionic tendencies.

But I suppose that it shouldn't be all that surprising that she turned out the way she did considering her father owns a big shot production company and her mother is only the most demanding idol to ever grace this fair planet. She never really stood a chance I suppose.

Cabaret Madonna Montoya.

She truly did live up to her namesakes. She was the ultimate showgirl and diva and positively manic in every way imaginable.

We had all long ago decided that she was clinically insane and in need of an asylum, not a better therapist as she liked to claim.

Next to Cabaret, and with a distinctly superior look upon her face, sat with the poised elegance of cold sophistication the ever stunning and blunt Ermine Mallory. With long flowing hair as pure white as falling snow and eyes a deep shade of forest green, she was without a doubt as lovely as a rose.

A rose with thorns like the sharpest of blades.

Ermine Mallory was best compared to a winter's day; beautiful to look at but icy and bitter when exposed to. She was regarded as the reigning Queen Bitch of Whittleford Preparatory Academy, which wasn't all that hard to imagine once subjected to her sarcastic, frosty, and generally harsh remarks. It was her direct and cutting wit, delivered in her imposing and haughty manner which especially made her unapproachable to the rest of the student body, but which to us, her friends at least, made her wholly unique.

She was aloof with a feisty personality and an infinite store of acerbic and always truthful remarks. That was the thing about Ermine, she never lied. What she said was the complete and honest truth and she never spoke a word she really didn't mean.

As such it made her quite a difficult person to befriend as people tended to prefer to live in their own delusions, but once you overcame her forthright dialog and arctic demeanor she made a most valuable ally.

Ermine was also a fiercely independent individual, a trait developed over the years as a result of being left alone for months, even longer, at a time by her jet-setting and highly irresponsible parents, and had always rivaled me for the number one position in the maturity stakes out of the girls in our clique.

In addition, when contrasted with Cabaret who embodied the word immature, it was blatantly evident to see the one year age difference that divided her from most of the group and placed her as a senior, while the rest of us were delegated as juniors, bar Spencer and the Italian Stallion of our circle.

Which brings us to Giancarlo Tornatore.

Giancarlo Tornatore…where to start?

With pale blond hair and eyes a brilliant blue, combined with a seductively chiseled face, he was the very epitome of the words devilishly handsome.

A simple look was enough to drive most of the female population into a rabid frenzy of desire, and he was regularly denoted as this school's answer to Casanova.

And he knew it.

He was the most outrageously flirtatious and charming of personalities who had no problem whatsoever with using his talents to secure whatever he wanted. He was suave, he was slick, and he was even debonair with a healthy dose of finesse. For most it would appear sleazy, but for Giancarlo it was as natural as breathing. He was the ultimate playboy.

Not a day would go by without him having a new companion to entertain himself with, nor a week without some new salacious gossip emerging and spreading about him getting caught in the most inappropriate and improper of situations.

It was unquestionably and universally acknowledged that he was destined to live a life of debauchery and scandal.

And he loved it.

Giancarlo Tornatore came from a family that was ascribed as _nouveau riche_ or new money in laments terms. His father had struck it big in wine-making and was now considered as the leading manufacturer of such goods in the world, making Giancarlo and his three younger brother's first generation to the newly acquired wealth.

Although some would say this was a debilitating circumstance, it didn't seem to affect Giancarlo in the least. He understood the rules of the insanely wealthy perfectly and had it down to an art form: be as excessive, unnecessary, and superfluous with your money as humanly possible.

He honestly did belong in the realms of the rich and famous.

Near the blond heartthrob, and laughing animatedly at something he had just said sat Ming Ming Love, more affectionately known to us as Mimi.

The pretty azure haired and honey eyed girl was the daughter of two world renowned musicians and had inherited their bountiful musical gifts, something which had made her that much more enviable once her attractiveness was disregarded by her student associates.

She was strong and passionate and knew exactly what she wanted out of life, and wasn't afraid to work for it. She was determined to make it in the showbiz world and sought to achieve such a goal without the help and sway of her parent's influence. It really was an admirable aim when you thought about it, particularly when so many of our community didn't abide by such standards.

Mimi put everything she had into her singing and musical aspirations and was a force to be reckoned with. She was naturally a confident, positive and self-assured individual who believed in herself enough to make it.

And make it she would. We were all certain about that.

She was born to be a star.

She had the raw talent and charisma to make a lasting impression upon those she encountered and that special spark which made her different from all the rest and gave her the potential to be an enduring icon.

Despite this however, Ming Ming wasn't entirely averse to throwing a temper tantrum when things didn't go her way. She could actually be compared to Cabaret on some facets of her temperament and she was known to exaggerate and express her displeasure rather ardently in particular conditions. Although, where's Cabaret demanded attention with her noisy and brash antics, Mimi had more control than that and was able to convey her annoyance without breaking anything…most of the time anyway.

Turning away from Mimi I focused my gaze on the last, but most certainly not least, person in my little coterie of friends. There sitting nonchalantly on one of the table tops in the effortlessly refined and dignified manner only he could manage was my scrumptiously dazzling counterpart.

With glossy orange hair cut into an orderly chaos and sparkling blue eyes capable of disarming even the most hardened and sour of people, united with a sculpted physique and enchanting attributes, he was a viable candidate for a fairy-tale prince. Heir to one of the oldest and richest of fortunes on the East Coast, made and accumulated over the years from the lucrative market known as real estate, and with the brains to ensure he wouldn't disappoint the expectations of his family, he was every girl's fantasy man at Whittleford Preparatory Academy.

Also identified as the ever divine Brooklyn Kingston.

My best friend.

My boyfriend.

To everyone that wasn't the two of us that is.

To the public we were the golden 'It' couple, but behind closed doors we were merely the best of friends trying to make the most of a bad situation.

We had always known that we would never be given the freedom to date and eventually marry the person of our choosing and would henceforth be manipulated into a union by our parent's will and strategy, these being the unwritten rules of the restrictive and often archaic society in which we lived. The idea of love didn't even factor into the negotiations as marriage was not the sacred institution it was to the rest of the world, merely a way of securing or expanding the power and prosperity of the already affluent.

We were bargaining chips and we knew it.

We had therefore come to the decision at the age of twelve to simply date one another as we both knew that neither of our parent's could object to such a pairing. It was a match made in proverbial heaven. And we figured that it could've been a lot worse. After all, what was so bad about marrying your best friend?

Nevertheless we had determined that if either of us ever did truly fall in love and wanted to break the arrangement, then there would be no hard feelings. In the end, we loved each other but we weren't _in_ love with each other.

I smiled sadly at that thought. Brooks was probably the person who knew me the best, we were similar in so many ways, and yet even he didn't really know anything about me. We were practically strangers and he didn't even know it.

I looked around at the seven students sprawled around the centre of the quad, oblivious to my gazing eyes, and sighed quietly.

Bryan Kyznetsov. Spencer Novikov. Cabaret Madonna Montoya. Ermine Mallory. Giancarlo Tornatore. Ming Ming Love. Brooklyn Kingston.

They were the people who surrounded me on a daily basis, who I considered my friends, and who only saw the person I portrayed myself as, like everyone else. They saw the disguise, the perfection, never the real me.

And I was fine with that, I had to remind myself. It was what I wanted.

In the grand scheme of things, even if I sought to throw off the shackles I had created all those years ago, there was no possible way I could.

I would disappoint so many people and destroy myself in the process.

It was suicide.

Shaking my head slightly, I squared my shoulders and purposefully strolled forward into the sunlit courtyard, slipping easily into my specially crafted persona with every step I took.

Halfway towards the small knot of students and I was forced to stop however as a small being with the reddest hair imaginable ploughed into me, squeezing me in a bone-crushing hug, and shrilly exclaiming, "Ari, darling! How are you?"

Before I could answer though, she was dragging me forwards with her hand wrapped around my wrist in a death grip and her mouth going a million miles a minute, much too fast for me to catch on to what she was talking about exactly. Although she didn't seem to mind and abruptly ended her speech with another suffocating hug and a, "Really, it's been _far_ too long! We have so much to discuss and catch up on!"

I couldn't help but smile indulgently at her as the rest of my friends chuckled or rolled their eyes at the tiny girl, "It's good to see you to Cabs, but it's only been two days since I last saw you."

"But darling, two days is a whole 48 hours which is a whole 2,880 minutes which is a whole 172,800 seconds!" Cabaret cried out in shock, a hand to her heart as she conveyed just how _long_ two days really was. Apparently I had been gravely mistaken in thinking that the time span we hadn't seen each other in wasn't overly extensive.

Saving me from having to respond to such a proclamation however was a conveniently intervening boyfriend who wrapped one arm gently around my waist and softly kissed my temple in greeting. In reply I smiled prettily up at him and said "Hey."

Before he could answer though, I was ripped out of his arms by a pair of hands who took mine in their own and twirled me around the quad before letting me land in their embrace. Without even looking up, I knew precisely who it was.

"Hello Giancarlo. How were you're holidays?"

"My dearest, most delectable Ari," he began and I couldn't help but giggle as he openly flirted with me, "They were heart wrenchingly cold and lonely without the warmth that only my Bella can so provide me with," he continued with a not-so-subtle wink. He really was a lady killer.

At that moment Ermine made her presence known as she hit the blond Italian upside the head and glared at him when he asked what he did to deserve such a brutal attack from such a fragile beauty as herself.

Her reply? She hit him harder.

We all looked on amused as the battle began, positive that Giancarlo was about to suffer at the hands of the sadistically smirking Ermine. Such an expression never led to any good.

As the two polar opposites continued to fight and flirt, completely one sided of course, I took the time to greet the remainder of my friends and strike up conversations with each of them.

We sustained in this deceptively untroubled manner until the bell went announcing that we had ten minutes until homeroom was set to commence.

* * *

I was currently sitting in the very centre of my homeroom classroom with my head bowed towards my desk in supposed embarrassment as all eyes, students and teacher alike, stared at me in anticipation.

They were all eagerly waiting for an answer.

"Well Miss. Fawkes, what do you say?" Mr. Park, the graying educator standing behind the teacher's desk asked me keenly, waiting like the rest of the people in the room for my response.

"Well, I don't know what to say. I mean I'm sure there's someone else more suited for the role," I countered timidly, laying the modesty on thick for show when on the inside I was more than happy with this turn of events.

Mr. Park appeared to be slightly disappointed with my reply as his eyes dulled somewhat from the lack of enthusiasm about selecting another candidate. "I suppose Mr. Kingston is just as qualified and able to perform the duties required," he said as he dejectedly offered the role to Brooklyn who so happened to be seated beside me.

Brooklyn, being who he was instantly turned to me with a devious grin and announced to everyone, "I thank-you for the opportunity Mr. Park, but I must regrettably decline the generous offer." He then turned to me and said sweetly, "Therefore Ari, you have to take the position by default."

I scowled at him as he chuckled at my reaction and peered helplessly around at my peers, all of who had began chanting my name over and over again.

"Harlow. Harlow. Harlow."

I then turned my attention back to Mr. Park who was staring at me expectantly. I stood up from my seat slowly and gracefully and the chanting ceased as they all waited with baited breath for my decisive response.

"I guess I have no choice but to accept the title of Class President then," I graciously stated, earning a round of thunderous applause from my classmates. I smiled brilliantly at them all and resumed my seat, secretly pleased with what had transpired.

It was only the first day of school and already this year looked like it was turning out just the way I wanted it to.

Perfect.

* * *

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